


Cave Day

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Dwarves, Domestic Fluff, Gigolas Week, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:11:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A peaceful morning is interrupted by Gimli's various great-niblings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cave Day

Deep within the Glittering Caves lay a chamber of arching walls shot through with veins of deep green and slivers of shimmering gold. There was no fireplace, for only a single crevice led to the surface to provide clean air, and the master of the room could not bear to expand it overmuch, nor damage the stone of the walls. He feared that even the prodigious skill of the dwarves might split the veins of minerals. Even to shape the room had taken a full year of careful labor, and all who saw it agreed that it was masterfully done. Against the eastern wall was a set of furniture—silver wood, a gift from the Elves, no doubt, and a low armchair with a thick blanket thrown over the back. On the western wall opposite that hung an old, fading tapestry depicting the company of Thorin Oakenshield, and before it sat a workbench covered in pieces of half-carved rock. They were strewn haphazardly over the table, but the tools neatly arranged on the right-hand side, all oiled and well-cared for.

In the center of the room stood a bed of magnificent mahogany—not a dwarf-sized bed, or even a bed made to match the majesty of a dwarf lord, although it was low enough to the ground that one might climb in it without experiencing any loss of dignity. The downy coverlet was a deep, silvery grey embroidered with emerald leaves and sapphire stars along the edges. It was on top of this coverlet that Legolas, prince of Eryn Lasgalen, lay—and beneath it, Gimli, lord of the Glittering Caves.

Legolas did not sleep, even in the strange trance of the Elves, but lay atop the blankets with his golden head pillowed on his arms as he stared at the sleeping Dwarf. Under his fond gaze, Gimli began to stir. He awoke with a heavy sigh, burrowed further into the blankets, and then turned his head. A smile flickered on his lips, nearly hidden by the wisps of his white beard.

“’Tis too early for that, Legolas.”

Legolas laughed, but quietly—it seemed a shame to disturb the peaceful silence of the room.

“Too early for what?”

“Inscrutable Elvish stares.”

“Inscrutable? My dear Gimli, do you mean to say that the meaning behind this particular expression yet eludes you? Ai, let us say then not that the Elves are inscrutable, but the Dwarves blind.”

Gimli snorted.

“What am I meant to see, then?”

Wordlessly, Legolas drew back the blankets and slipped beneath them. The warmth of the Dwarf drew him like moth to flame, and he curled his body close, allowing one arm to drape loosely over Gimli’s waist and the other over the pillows. His head tilted close enough to breathe the musk of Gimli’s hair, and he kissed his temple tenderly, and then his lips.

“Ah,” Gimli said, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

“Ah,” Legolas teased. He kissed him again and then drew back, his head falling back against the pillows. “But I shall not disturb you, for surely it is too early for Elves and their persistent kisses.”

Gimli reached out and rested his fingers against the Elf’s cheek thoughtfully. They brushed against the smooth skin, and Legolas might have glanced away, embarrassed by the intensity of the Dwarf’s estimation, had he not experienced it so often over so long a time.

“It is strange to me,” Gimli murmured. “That I wake to the same face I have always known, bearing the same expression I saw in Minas Tirith and the forest of Fangorn, all those years ago—I feel a young dwarf again, and then my bones creak and I wonder whether I am perhaps lost yet in dreams…”

“Does it bother you?” Legolas asked with a smile. “I shall draw lines on my forehead, and dim my hair with ash, if you wish.”

“Never, hofukel.”

His voice was so gruff and earnest that Legolas was compelled to kiss him again, and Gimli hummed low in his throat. The sound rumbled through the Elf like thunder and he moved closer, feeling the body beneath his—the muscles kept strong by work, but padded with soft fat brought on by peace and good meals. Legolas broke the kiss and pressed his lips to Gimli’s neck.

“O my love,” he breathed. “Was it not I who discovered the first glorious vein of mithril in your beard? Was it not I who chastised you for honing your body as though war and starvation were upon you, rather than the joys of peace? Was it not I who delighted at each line carved in your glorious face by laughter and happiness?”

“It was,” Gimli agreed. “And I shall not doubt that I am the fairest Dwarf in the Glittering Caves, if you swear it, for I know your eyes are keen.”

“There is a twinkling in your eye that I like not,” Legolas chuckled. “Do you mock me?”

“Nay. I think only of an Elf I sat by once at a council, who saw me and sneered and turned up his nose.”

“You smelt of pipeweed.”

“I smell of pipeweed still.”

“I have grown fond of the scent,” Legolas mumbled, burying his face in Gimli’s chest so that the words were muffled. He was having a sentimental moment, it was true, but the words would be thrown back at him for all of eternity if he had no basis on which to deny them.

Before Gimli could respond, there was a knock on the door, made by a heavy hand but gently executed. It was well known that the Elf slept little, and Gimli often rose early with him, but some courtesy was yet extended to the lord. From the less bold, at least. Legolas guessed that it was Gimli’s niece’s husband, who had less audaciousness than the rest of the family.

He removed himself to his own side of the bed and sat up against the pillows, regal as the prince he was.

“Who calls?” Gimli asked.

“Kudan, my lord.” Legolas silently congratulated himself. “You have several young guests requesting an audience.”

“I cannot give an audience in my nightclothes!” Gimli declared, but there was a humorous note to his voice, and Legolas smiled.

“Never fear, my lord, for they are in their nightclothes as well.”

“Ah, _that_ is all right, then. Let them in.”

The door opened, and six young Dwarves burst in—all of Gimli’s great-nieces and great-nephews, the youngest only six, the eldest nearly thirty. With a terrific roar, they hurdled towards the bed. The only one who remained was Gimli II, who toddled happily after his siblings and cousins until Legolas crossed the room and swooped the little one into his arms. The Dwarfling was content with that, and he promptly began to tug on Legolas’s braids. He had displayed a clear fondness for the Elf—which all agreed was fitting, given his namesake.

Legolas carried Little Gimli back to the bed and lay against the pillows, watching in amusement as the young dwarves collapsed on Gimli, shouting war cries. Gimli’s booming laughter rang out, and he called “Peace! Peace, young warriors—I yield.”

Gimli had two nieces and a nephew—Dama, Gala, and Gama. Dama and Gama had three children each, while Gala had chosen to focus on her silver work, which Legolas thought was just as well, because the six children were plenty to get along with. Kara, Dama’s daughter and the second eldest of the group, claimed a proprietary place near her uncle’s side and kissed his cheek.

“Happy name day, uncle,” she said, and the words were dutifully chorused on all sides.

“Surely you jest! I am too old for name days.”

“You _have_ to come to the feast, uncle,” An insisted. “We worked very hard on your present!”

“Ah, well I am not too old for presents. I suppose I will go, then—but Legolas will surely agree that I am too old for name days all the same, and we must call it something different.”

“Oh, assuredly,” Legolas said in an airy voice as he rubbed Little Gimli’s back. The dwarfling had promptly fallen asleep against his shoulder, and he smiled at his husband over the crowd of children. “Why, every year you are closer and closer to being as old as I am, it seems. If we keep counting name days, I think one year you will even pass me.”

The oldest children immediately protested; even after all these years, Legolas was still somewhat amused by the dwarves’ rather literal sense of humor, and he surrendered quickly.

“Let us call it… a cave day, hm?” Gimli decided.

“ _Every_ day is a cave day, uncle,” Ban said as he rolled his eyes. Ban was the eldest, and rather too close to the tempestuous forties—but not too old to jump away when Gimli ruffled his hair fondly.

“Yes, but it was on my name day—when I was still young enough to have one—that I first discovered these Glittering Caves, though I did not realize that until later.”

“You’re that old?” Badzhin asked, his mouth falling open in awe. “We’ve lived in the caves _forever_.”

“Not quite that long, mail-min,” Legolas corrected with a gentle laugh. “Your mother was your age by the time we came to live here.”

Badzhin shrugged—in his mind, that was as close to forever as one could get, anyway.

At that point, the young dwarves began to beg for details of their uncles’ heroic deeds in the War, which were always among the favorites of their tales. Gimli teased them more, pretending not to recall the specifics and they turned to Legolas instead, but his description of the caves, and the original Helm’s Deep, were quickly dismissed as too helplessly Elvish, even after all these years. Legolas settled down into the blankets instead and surveyed his husband and their relatives with ancient tenderness in his face.

Gimli’s voice rose and fell in the rolling cadence of Dwarvish storytelling, and in the warmth and comfortable stillness of the room, Legolass easily slipped into a light, dreamy sleep. His eyes remained opened, and all his dreams played out on a background of stony gold.

**Author's Note:**

> hofukel - joy of all joys, Khuzdul  
> main-min - little one, Sindarin
> 
> the "my birthday was this day of the adventure but I didn't realize until later" thing borrowed from Bilbo. Basically this fic was an excuse to write old!Gimli and baby dwarves. It's been written for a while, then Day 3 of Gigolas Week (Fangorn/Glittering Caves) gave me the kick in the ass to finish it. Ta!


End file.
